


An Interesting Stranger

by Kiwikiwi591



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bus ride AU?, Curious!John, Eventual Johnlock, M/M, Strangers, Writer!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-20 19:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1523399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiwikiwi591/pseuds/Kiwikiwi591
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John H. Watson has a fairly normal life as a walk-in clinic doctor after his medical discharge from service in Afghanistan. The only thing that makes his frankly very boring new life interesting is an odd man he sees on the bus ride to his flat... And his increasing fascination with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Hamish Watson, Clinic Doctor.

**Author's Note:**

> Trying out an AU for the first time. I think I saw a variation on this as a prompt somewhere, but I'm not completely sure; if this is the case, thank you, whoever you are!
> 
> More to come; I hope you like this rather short first chapter.
> 
> Edit: Just caught a couple of typos that I didn't find before posting. Will check the next chapters more carefully :v

John sighed as he flipped the light switch in his office, locking up for another day. He was exhausted; not only had he worked two extra hours, but the clinic had also been especially busy that day with flu season starting. He’d lost count of the number of sneezes, sniffles, and coughs that had resulted in him getting sprayed with some kind of germ-filled fluid.

John stepped out the door, grabbing his cane before shutting the door. He walked out to the front desk, where his coat was waiting. He sighed, picking it up and throwing it on. Sarah offered a smile as he walked by.

“Long day for you too, then?” she asked.

“What, because you had to work so hard?” John replied, giving a smile in reply. “You just sit at your desk, type away at your computer, and call people back to me. _I_ do all the actual work.”

Sarah scrunched her face at him. “Watch it, you. Typing can be hard work.”

John laughed, and gave a wave goodbye before stepping outside. His smile slowly faded as he walked along the familiar route to the bus stop, sighing to himself the whole way. He’d not been feeling right ever since he’d been discharged; it was to be expected, he knew. His therapist’s words echoed in his head.

_You’re a soldier. It’s going to take some time to adjust to civilian life._

He knew he had it good. He had a decent little flat, not too big, not too small. Steady job, along with a quickly forming relationship. And yet, it just wasn’t enough. John felt oddly… Empty.

His therapist had suggested writing. At first he’d laughed at the idea.

 _Writing about everything that happens to you will honestly help._ She’d suggested a blog. He’d said then, and still stuck by it, that a blog would do no good. Nothing ever happened to him. She’d offered a compromise once it became obvious that the blog was doing nothing; a journal. He’d scoffed at the suggestion at first, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. One of the biggest problems with the blog was that there were some things that needed sorted that he simply didn’t want to publish online for all to see. Not that anyone would visit a blog of his, anyway. But at any rate, a journal worked much better.

The little leather-bound notebook remained fairly empty at first; a snippet here, a thought there. It served more as a to-do list than anything. As the weeks and months stretched on, however, it turned more into an outlet for how he was feeling. Sure, every once in a while it seemed silly; he felt like a sulking teen, writing down all of his general boredom and disdain with his new life. In the end, though, John was very glad for the place to write his thoughts. He was sure that it was one of the few things truly keeping him sane in his daily routine.

John sighed heavily, his breath condensing in the cool January air. It was time to pull himself out of his pity party; he had a nice new life in London, and damn it, he was going to enjoy it. He sat on the bench of the bus stop, waiting for it to arrive.

\--

16 minutes later, right on schedule, the bus pulled forward. John stepped on, giving the driver his fare. John looked around, annoyed to find his usual seat taken. He decided for a seat towards the back, away from other riders. After a couple minutes, the bus pulled forward again, and John pulled out his journal, collecting his thoughts of the day.

\--

John’s thoughts were interrupted about 30 minutes later when the bus stopped again. Normally, he would have just ignored the stop, but the lone man stepping onto the bus caught his attention; mostly because although there were now plenty of empty seats on the bus, the man walked straight to the back and sat in the seat opposite him. Again, normally he would have just dismissed this after some momentary awkwardness; but for whatever reason, John took a moment to look at the other passenger.

The man was exceptionally tall and lean, an effect probably achieved by the long, dark coat he wore. His short, curly hair matched the color. In contrast, his face seemed very pale; probably highlighted by all the dark around it. What really caught John’s attention, though, was the man’s eyes.

He’d never seen such eyes. Bright, burning, and filled with an attentive curiosity that seemed almost hyper-aware; it was like he was deconstructing every bit of the world around him, taking it into his mind.

John shook his head. He’d been in almost a trance; he was unsure how long he’d stared at the man. After a couple moments of embarrassment, John was glad to find that it appeared that he’d noticed nothing. As a matter of fact, he seemed much too concerned with something outside the window to notice anything else. This suspicion was proven when the man suddenly looked surprised, then changed to an expression that could only be described as a child opening a present on Christmas morning. The man suddenly stood, grinning, and yelled “Stop the bus!”

John pushed away the little odd feeling he’d gotten at the sound of the man’s voice; a deep, rumbling baritone, even while yelling. The bus screeched to the halt, and the man ran outside, seeming to ignore the protests and curses of the driver. John looked curiously out the window, and could see the man running down the sidewalk.

“Sorry about that, mate,” the bus driver said. “Not sure what he was on about.” He shook his head and turned back to the steering wheel.

John shook his head again as the bus began to move. For whatever reason, he just couldn’t get the man out of his mind; even when he actively concentrated on something else in an effort to push it away, the calculating gaze still sat in the back of his head. John looked down at his journal, which remained blank. Just as the bus pulled up to his stop, John jotted something down.

_Sometimes, strangers can be more interesting than friends._


	2. A Walk to Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaken up by a nightmare, John decides to take a longer walk than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the short chapter! I might be a little slow on updating for a while, this week and next are finals for me. I'll try to write whenever I can!

_Gunshots everywhere, exploding inside my head. Someone’s calling my name, but I can’t move. I can’t speak. I fall to the hard ground, still hearing my name being called. I look down, see the slowly blooming spot of blood on my arm and shoulder. Someone yells for me again, and I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out._

_Blackness seeps in._

* * *

 

John bolted upright, breathing hard at the nightmare. He looked around, blinking, the dark flat coming into focus. He took a long, deep breath, putting his face in his hands. He wasn’t in Afghanistan. He wasn’t being shot at. He was here, in his cozy little flat, in London. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to keep away the quickly-forming lump in his throat. He swung his legs over the bed, staring off into space for a moment. After calming himself down, he took a look at the clock on the wall.

6:27 AM.

He stood, stretching.

 _I’m not going to bed anytime soon anyway,_ he thought to himself, walking to the kitchen. He flipped on the television as he walked by, the news channel flicking to life.

“There’s been a fourth victim in a mysterious case of what have been called ‘serial suicides,’” the reporter said. John turned to look at the screen. An image came on the screen, a woman with neat blonde hair, covered head-to-toe in pink. “Jennifer Wilson, a reporter from our own station, was the latest victim, found yesterday evening by two boys in an empty flat. Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard has declined to comment on the possibility of a serial killer, saying only that ‘he’s got his best man on the case’. ”

John flipped the channel, shaking his head. The police had been at this case for months, and still nothing had come up. Their so-called ‘best man’ would probably give up within the week. John turned back to the kitchen, getting himself some breakfast.

* * *

 

Two hours before he was due back at the clinic, John stepped outside his flat, cane in hand. There was no way he could possibly walk all the way there, not with his leg, but he could at least walk to the next bus stop rather than his usual one. That would take about 40 minutes at his usual pace; plenty of time to think.

The little journal sat heavily in his pocket. He knew Ella would throw a fit if she knew that he’d only written one sentence in the whole of two weeks, but at least he was writing.

He thought about that one sentence for a second, and what caused it. _Sometimes, strangers can be more interesting than friends._ That’s what he’d written; the only thing he could think of after seeing the odd man on the bus. John couldn’t seem to keep him mind off of him once he’d gotten there; something about the man seemed almost… Otherworldly. Like he was above it all, presiding over the commoners like some kind of king. John chuckled to himself, shaking his head a bit. The writer’s side of his thoughts were getting the better of him; really, “presiding over the commoners”. Where did that even come from?

John’s thinking was interrupted by an unusually loud snippet of speech on the busy street.

“Think, think, _think!_ Who hunts in a crowd, who do we trust even-“ the man said before running headlong into him. John stumbled, falling back onto the sidewalk.

“Excuse you-“ John began, but looked up to see the man from the bus. He stood quickly, the man looking at him the whole time. He momentarily looked confused, but then his face cleared, save for a nearly invisible narrowing of the eyes. “Sorry,” John mumbled. The man looked confused again.

“Why are you apologizing?” he asked.

“I, uh..” he replied. Why was he apologizing? The other man ran into him, _he_ should be the one apologizing.

“Doesn’t matter,” the man said, walking away briskly, beginning to mumble to himself again. Or rather, something in his hand. John squinted.

It was a skull. The man was holding a skull, speaking to it.

John stared after him incredulously. He’d only met the man twice, only spoken once, and he was already one of the most interesting people he’d ever met. Odd, and probably psychopathic, but interesting. John turned and walked away, when suddenly a deep voice came from much too close behind him.

“You forgot this,” the man said, holding something out. John turned and looked at the offered arm.

He was holding his cane.

John stared at it in disbelief. He’d just been walking, quickly, with no problem, without his cane. John grabbed it, taking it slowly. He looked up at the man, who gave a quick smile before walking away again. “Now, where was I?” he said to the skull. John looked at him, then his cane. He shook his head, and continued walking, eventually using it for support before stepping onto the bus. Once again, the man was stuck in his mind for hours after their encounter.

Very interesting, indeed.


	3. Back to Boredom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hasn't spoken to the stranger again in weeks. Just as he finally pushes the man out of his mind, something new appears..

John didn’t see the man the next day. Or the next week. Or the next two weeks, for that matter. He found himself taking that same long route to the second bus stop, hoping to bump into him again. He knew somewhere in the back of his head that it was ridiculous; he didn’t even know this man’s name, and yet he was trying to track him down. John stopped for a second, the thought hitting him; he didn’t know the man’s name. If he could just get a name, maybe he could-

No. That’s ridiculous. He was _not_ going to figure out a stranger’s name to track down the man himself. It was rather worrying that he’d thought for even a second that it was a good idea. He shook his head, continuing his walk.

Later on, he noticed on the bus ride to work that there were a few police cars, and what appeared to be Detective Inspector Lestrade outside of a flat on Baker Street.

Maybe they’d finally caught their killer.

* * *

 

“Go home, John. You’ve been taking way too many extra hours lately. You’ve got to be exhausted,” Sarah said, looking at him with her arms crossed from the doorway.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, looked at the clock. It was just past nine, but still an hour before he was planning on leaving for the night. He shook his head.

“No, I’m fine, really. And we’re understaffed. We need all the help we can get,” he replied, stretching.

“There’s no one here, John. No one ever comes in after 8:30, and even if they do, there’s still two of us here. I’m telling you, take a night off.”

John sighed, leaning back in his chair. He was, in fact, exhausted, and going home to fall into bed sounded just about perfect. He also refused to admit to himself why he was waiting so long to leave each night.

“Yeah, okay. Fine,” John said, standing. Sarah uncrossed her arms and walked over, putting a hand on John’s shoulder.

“Try not to work so hard,” she said quietly. John smiled and nodded. Sarah took away her hand, and both of them walked out of his office.

* * *

 

John walked out into the night, his heavy sigh condensing in the air in front of him. He was thinking again. Normally, the turmoil his mind had been in for the past two weeks would mean that his journal would sit filled with pages and pages about how boring his daily routine was; instead, only a couple lines had been filled.

_Sometimes, strangers can be more interesting than friends._

_A single person can make a huge difference._

_A short, exciting life is better than a long, mundane one._

_Falling into a pattern is harder than it should be._

And that was it. Two weeks, and he’d written four lines. Not even good lines, at that; rather cryptic, now that he looked back on it. He shook his head, trying futily to sort his head. About half way to the bus stop, a cab pulled up. The cabbie rolled down the window, motioned John to come over.

“Need a ride, mate? Free of charge,” he said.

John suppressed a sigh.He was used to getting some attention because of his leg, and normally refused when offered anything in pity, but the offer sounded nice. The older man behind the wheel seemed nice enough, anyway; what was the worst that could happen?

“Yeah, thanks,” John said, walking to the back door. Just as he sat inside, he heard a familiar voice yelling.

“Wait, don’t!” the man yelled. The cabbie pulled away, and John looked out the back window. The stranger that he’d just been able to stop thinking of was holding an arm out to the cab, beginning to run after it. Normally, John would have just brushed this off as taking someone’s ride, and feeling a bit bad for it. However, the look on the man’s face was nothing but absolute panic. John turned back to the cabbie, confused as he realized something.

“I never gave you an address,” he said.

“Don’t need one. I know where you’re going,” he replied.

“Sorry?” John asked.

The cabbie turned, giving a cold smile. John clenched his hand.

“Only said I was giving you a ride. Never said where.”

John shrunk back in the seat, his blood running cold. He took a deep breath.

“Okay, then, where are we going?” John asked, keeping his voice as level as possible.

“Why not just enjoy the ride? Take in the scenery,” he said. “It is your last, after all.”

John froze, taking in a sharp breath. The man laughed a bit at his reaction.

“What the hell is going on here?” he asked.

The cabbie said nothing, just continued driving. John reached over, grabbed the door handle, finding that it was locked. There were buttons up front that controlled the locks on the doors. John fell back, letting out a puff of air. He closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts.

_Okay, first thing; this man wants to kill you. No reason as of yet, but it’s been made clear that that’s what he intends to do. Second thing; you have no idea where you’re going. Third; no one else knows that you’re not going home. The friends that you do have think that you left work and went straight home._

This wasn’t helping every much. John reached into his pocket, hoping to find his phone; he swore upon remembering that it was on his bedside table, charging. The same table that now held his gun, which would be oh-so-wonderful to have.

_Okay, odds aren’t looking great._

Suddenly, he remembered something.

The man.

The stranger, the one he’d bumped into twice.

_“Wait, don’t!”_

Obviously, he’d known that something was wrong. Not only that, but he’d seen John before, and knew what he looked like. He laid his head back.

_So my best chance at this point is a random bloke who I’ve only barely spoken to once, who also has no idea where this cab is going._

_Great._


	4. A Tough Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives at the cabbie's chosen destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upped the rating for language.

“Ah, here we are!” The cabbie said, smiling widely. John shivered involuntarily, drew in a breath.

_You’re going to get out of this. The opportunity might not be showing itself right now, but you’ll find a way out of this. You’ve gotten out of worse._

John looked out the window, gaped at where they were; behind St. Bart’s hospital.

“No night staff here. I’ve been planning this one for a while; right now, there are no appointments in the morgue, no overnight patients. The one and only cleaner for this hour just broke his leg. There will be no one here for..” The cabbie checked his watch. “..45 minutes. Just enough time.”

 _45 minutes._ John’s heart raced. 45 minutes, probably less than that, was all he had. To figure out how to get out of this mess, or...

No. He couldn’t think of the alternative right now. Right now, he needed to concentrate on getting out, somehow.

The cabbie got out, walked to his door. He opened it up.

“Come on, now. You’ve got an appointment,” he said, a cold smile still on his face.

“And if I refuse?” John said.

The cabbie sighed, pulling a gun out from behind his back. John took a shaky breath; of course.

“So that’s it then? Shoot me in the head and it’s over with?” John asked, proud to have kept his voice from shaking.

“Oh, no. That’s no fun at all,” the cabbie replied. His eyes took on a dark look now. “No, Doctor Watson. We’re gonna have a little chat; then, you’re gonna kill yourself.”

John looked at him incredulously. For one thing, how in the hell did he know his name?

_He said he did his research. He must have done it well._

Second, just why did he think he could make him commit suicide? There couldn’t possibly be anything he had that would make him want to do that. He’d been through too much in the past couple months to end it all over a couple of words.

The fact that this man thought he knew a way to make him make that choice almost terrified him more than anything else.

“Come on. No more stalling,” he said, motioning with the gun for John to step out. “Follow your orders, like a good little soldier.”

That comment sent his blood boiling; he clenched his hand, taking a breath to calm down. After a quick moment, he righted himself, squaring his shoulders. If he was truly walking to his death, he was sure as hell not going to be some snivelling little coward doing it.

He stepped out of the cab, shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

“There we are, the feisty old Captain.” The cabbie smiled again, but the darkness in his face remained. “Follow me.”

John walked, determined not to falter in his step. Left foot, right foot. Just like a march.

Just as they walked in the back door, John could have sworn he’d seen something moving behind them.

* * *

 

They walked in the doors of the room, the one at the very end of a long hallway.

“Well, what do you think?” the cabbie asked.

John faltered just the tiniest bit. He would have kicked himself over that, but he was too busy gawking at the room they were in.

It was the room he’d spent most of his days studying in.

“Appropriate, I thought,” he said, pacing around John now. “You spent a lot of your days here. Seems fine that you’d end them here, too.”

John shivered.

_Keep control, damn it!_

The man pulled out a chair at a desk, motioned John to walk over. He obliged, sitting down as the cabbie walked opposite him. Once they were both seated, he stared directly at him, as if searching for something in John’s expression. In response, he kept his face carefully blank, even as he stared at the gun still pointed towards his head.

“So, Doctor Watson; let’s have a little chat.” The cabbie leaned forward a bit. “I’ll be nice; you get three questions. I’ll answer them truthfully, promise. But once your three are done, it’s my turn.”

John swallowed. This was his chance.

_Use the three questions. There’s got to be something you can do._

John nodded, took a moment to think. Finally, he cleared his throat, and spoke.

“Fine, yeah. Alright. My first question then; why are you doing this?”

The cabbie chuckled. “You couldn’t be more creative than that? Everyone asked that. All four of them. Difference is, you’ll actually get an answer.”

He leaned back, his expression unexpectedly softening a bit. John refused to feel any sympathy.

“You’re a doctor, so you should know; some people, they don’t like bad news. Some people are given the worst news possible, and they just can’t take it. Too much left to do, too little time.” The man finished, his voice going oddly quiet.

John thought on that for a second. Realization dawned on him.

“Oh, God. You’re dying, aren’t you?” John asked, his tone soft in spite of the situation.

“So are you,” the man replied, his eyes hardening.

“So, what? You’re killing people to outlive them? That’s what this is about?” Horror was beginning to creep in. John had had to give that particular news to patients before, and was used to the massive range of reactions. He’d even seen anger with the world coming from them, before. But this... This was something else.

He gave a small smile. “Not quite. That’s part of it, sure. But there’s more.” He paused, sighing. “Two more questions.”

John suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be figuring out a way to not be killed. He’d just accomplished next to nothing with his first question. While it was true that he now knew at least part of the reason the man was doing this, it was obvious that the sympathy route wasn’t going to work. The man was absolutely mad.

“Alright,” John said. He thought for a moment. “Why did you pick me?”

The man shook his head. “Such boring questions. I expected more out of you, really. Didn’t he rub off on you, just a little?”

John looked back at him, confused. What was he-?

Oh.

“I mean, you’ve only bumped into him, what? Twice? But you’ve stared after him. Wondered about him. What was going on in that funny little head of his, watched him take apart everything he saw.”

“The stranger from the bus?” John said.

“Ahh, you don’t even know his name. Pity that you’ll never know. He’s the reason, you know. I saw him slowly getting closer to you. What, did you think that second bump was on accident? Did you think it was an accident that he just happened to be passing by your cab?”

John was completely taken aback. Who the _hell_ was this man? Not just the cabbie, but the stranger as well. Then suddenly, it dawned on him; if John had never changed his routine, tried to find this man again, he wouldn’t be here right now.

‘Curiosity killed the cat’ had never seemed so morbidly appropriate.

“This particular man is of great interest to my sponsor. He saw the man take interest in you, who never takes any interest in a living person, mind you, and knew that you needed to be taken care of. You were a dangerous variable, Doctor. He couldn’t just leave you be.”

John sat back in shock.

“Last question.”

His mind fell into freefall. He racked his brain for several minutes before realising that there was just no way to get out of the situation; unless a miracle happened, it was likely that he’d be this psychopath’s latest victim. John slipped into quiet acceptance, then let out a long breath before speaking again.

“Fine. My last question,” John paused, wondering if he could actually speak the words. “How are you planning on killing me?”

The cabbie looked taken aback for a moment, and John was quietly pleased. At least he’d managed to get a reaction out of the man.

“Well, now. That wasn’t what I expected. Given up already, have you?”

John didn’t give him the benefit of a reply.

“Fine then. Here it is,” he said.

The man reached into his coat pocket with his free hand, pulling out two small jars. Each one held two pills; they all looked identical.

He set the two bottles side by side.

“Here’s the rules. There’s a good bottle, and a bad bottle. You pick the bottle that you’re going to take the pill from. But here’s the catch,” he said, looking directly into John’s eyes now. “I’ll take the other pill. No cheating, I promise I will. We’ll each take our medicine.”

John stared at the bottles, beginning to sweat. So, there was still a chance. A 50/50 chance, but a chance nonetheless.

“One question,” John said, pausing a moment. The cabbie nodded him on. “What happens if I don’t take either one?”

“Then I shoot you in the head,” the cabbie said flatly. John froze a bit at that. A 50/50 chance sounded a lot better than a shot through the head.

John nodded. He looked over the bottles carefully, wishing desperately that he’d paid more attention when he’d learned about different poisons; maybe he’d be able to spot some kind of discrepancy between the two. But no, as far as he could see, the pills in the bottles were identical. During his inspection, John realised that there were two in either bottle; so he wasn’t the last victim. There was still going to be one more after him.

Poor bastard.

John drew a shaky breath, then closed his eyes. He had a choice, and he’d made it.

He suddenly sprang up, jumping onto the desk and wrenching the man’s wrist. He cried out in pain, dropping the gun. John scrambled to the floor, picking it up and pointing it at the man’s head. The cabbie stared up at him, eyes wide.

“Yeah, how does it feel to be on the other end? Hmm?” John readied the gun, his finger twitching near the trigger. “How do you like feeling like they did? Like I did?”

The man looked directly into his eyes, and John couldn’t help but feel a begrudging twinge of sympathy. His eyes were filled with fear.

“I’m going to call the police now. You make one move, and I’ll put a bullet right through your head. You know I was a soldier. You know I’m not bluffing,” John said. He really meant it; although he didn’t want to shoot the poor mad man, a part of him felt like it was a deserving punishment. One of his victims was just a kid, having barely even started his life. Why did the murderer deserve to keep his?

“Put the gun down,” said an oddly familiar deep voice from behind them. John turned his head, and spotted the stranger, the man who’d started all this, had disrupted his new life and thrown him into this mess.

And damn, was he glad to see him.

Wait, what had he said?

“What?” John asked, staring at him with wide eyes.

“I said, put the gun down.”

John stopped, thinking for a moment. Finally, he lowered the weapon. He had an odd amount of trust for not even knowing the man.

“Now, give it to me.”

John was still confused, but obliged, putting the gun in the man’s outstretched hand. The man looked it over, then suddenly pointed it directly at his forehead.


	5. The Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How is John going to get out of this?

John stared, wide eyed, at both the stranger and the barrel of the gun pointed at him. He kicked himself, mentally. How could he have been that stupid, handing the gun over to someone he didn’t even know?

“What the hell are you doing?” John asked. The man just looked at him, brow creased in confusion.

“What are you talking about? _You’re_ the one who gave me the gun,” he replied. John sighed shakily. He’d trusted a complete stranger, and that was obviously a stupid move. He hadn’t even thought about it, just gave up his one bit of protection with no question. He hadn’t even had the foresight to call the police first.

“Now, you’ve got five seconds to answer my questions, otherwise I will shoot your hostage,” the man said, turning to the cabbie. “Understood?”

“Now why would it matter if _you_ shoot him? He’s going to die anyway,” he said. John laughed in spite of himself. He’d never thought he’d be in a situation where two strangers were arguing over who would kill him.

“That may be true, but you can escape as usual with your methods. The police write it off, in all their stupidity, as another suicide. Should I shoot this man, there will be no denying that he was murdered,” he replied. “And you will be the only culprit.”

“And you’re just so sure you’ll get out in time to not be seen?” the cabbie said.

“Oh, I guarantee it. I have my methods.”

The cabbie nodded, seeming to contemplate. Then, he smiled, laughed once.

“Go ahead.”

_What?_

“Are you sure?” The man asked, readying the gun. John clenched his hand again.

“Yeah. You go right ahead, shoot him in the head.”

“Fine.”

_Shit._

The man put his finger on the trigger. John’s eyes darted to the side, eying the man’s hand. He took a deep breath; it was now or never.

John quickly elbowed the man in the stomach, sliding out from under his arm. Just as he ducked, he heard the all-too-familiar sound of a gunshot. He fell to the ground.

John’s heart hammered, his eyes squeezed shut... After a moment, however, he heard the cabbie laugh. John opened one eye, looking up at the desk, but seeing nobody. Instead, about three feet away, the cabbie lay on the ground, blood slowly pooling beneath him. He sat straight up, staring at him. He could see an obvious entry wound just barely off centre on the man’s chest.

John stared up incredulously at the stranger, who seemed to be looking at the gun in his hand in disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe that he’d just shot the man. John’s mouth hung open.

“You-“ John began, but found he was lost for words. The man dropped the gun, walked over to the dying cabbie. John just sat in disbelief, watching.

“You said you had a sponsor, who is it?” he said, looking down at the man. “I want a name.”

The cabbie shook his head. Stubborn, even as he was dying.

“You might be dying, but there’s still time to hurt you,” he said. He stepped lightly on the bullet wound. The cabbie refused still to answer, and the man stepped harder. The other man let out a cry of pain, and John cringed.

“A name!” The man yelled.

“ _Moriarty!”_ the cabbie yelled, then went still. John shivered. The entire scene was awful.

The man looked confused for a moment, then his face went blank again. He turned his gaze to John, then flicked his eyes down to the gun.

“You should have worn gloves,” he said.

John was still frozen, and it took a moment to process what the man had said. “Sorry?” he said.

“Gloves. I’m wearing gloves, so no prints of mine will appear on the gun. The only ones that remain, then, are the cab driver’s and your own,” he said. John’s blood ran cold as he realised what that meant.

He may now be out of immediate danger, but he was also now the one and only suspect tied to evidence for the murder of the man.

The stranger suddenly crouched down, inches from John’s face.

“Listen to me, and listen carefully. A few months ago, you were diagnosed with PTSD. When the cabbie raised the gun against you, you had an attack, and you killed him in self-defence. With some words to Lestrade, you’ll get off with nothing but a small note on the bottom of the case file. It would mean that you took out the serial killer, after all. Do you understand?”

John was completely still, almost uncomprehending. Everything that had happened that night was catching up to him, and he was vaguely aware that he may go into shock. After a couple moments of deliberation, he decided on a curt nod.

“Good. You’re not as dull as you first appeared,” he said. John was too out of it to process the half-insult, half-complement. He sighed deeply as the first sirens sounded in the distance.

* * *

 

About an hour later, John sat in the back of the open-doored ambulance, a shock blanket around his shoulders. He knew he probably wasn’t actually in shock, but the man had told him quietly on the way out to go along with it should they decide he was. He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around all that had happened; a simple encounter on a bus, an event that now seemed years away, had lead to all this. The stranger walked over to him now, nodding to an EMT.

“Lestrade has agreed that you are not at fault for the death of the cab driver. A bit of paperwork, and you’ll just be an anecdote on the bottom of a file,” the man said. He paused for a moment, then looked at him. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, holding out a hand. John took it.

“John Watson,” he replied.

Sherlock nodded, then took back his hand. John looked at him as what seemed like a million questions buzzed around in his head. He finally settled on one.

“How did you know where I was being taken?” he asked.

“You’re a doctor. An army doctor, in fact, just recently discharged from either Afghanistan or Iraq. You were here in London years ago, studying at St. Bart’s just before you were shipped out. It only made sense in the mind of a serial killer to end your days where you spent the majority of your living ones,” Sherlock replied. John stared back at him, wide eyed.

“How the hell did you know that?” John asked after a couple moments of stunned silence. Sherlock gave a small, satisfied smile.

“Your hands are tanned above the wrists, but not below. You’ve been in a sunny country, but not out on vacation, otherwise the tan would be even. When you came onto the bus the first time we met, you were coming here from a clinic. Since you were recently discharged, you would immediately go to a profession of comfort; hence, army doctor. Your journal had a couple entries about St. Bart’s, which you showed while flipping through pages on the bus.”

John sat back, stunned. After a couple moments, he felt a smile creep onto his face. “That’s brilliant,” he said. Sherlock looked back at him, eyes showing an unidentifiable look.

“Really?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” John replied. “That was amazing, brilliant...” he trailed off. Sherlock smiled.

“That’s not what people usually say,” he said.

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John laughed at that. He could see how it could get annoying after a while, if you knew the man. There were some who could see right through you, yeah, but this was... It was uncanny. It would be irritating, to say the least, to be unable to hide anything from him.

An EMT strode over then, giving John a nod and a smile.

“Seems you’re good to go,” he said. John shrugged off the blanket, stood on the pavement. “Have a nice night,” the man said. John nodded, and began walking. Surprisingly, Sherlock followed. John didn’t have any objections to talking to the man for a while longer, though.

Suddenly, John remembered something that he’d said.

“Wait, you said it only made sense in the mind of a serial killer to bring me back here. How did you know that?”

“I guess you could say from experience,” he replied.

John went cold again, slightly. “So you’re-“ he began.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, I’m not a serial killer, if that’s what you mean. No, I do something rather different.”

John looked up at him. “So what do you do, then?”

Sherlock looked forward, gave a small, proud smile. “Consulting detective, only one in the world. I invented the profession...”

The two walked off, continuing to talk as they went. Later on, they would sit in a restaurant, discussing the possibility of a nice rent arrangement for the flat on Baker Street. John would remember his decision on it later on.

It was one of the best ones he’d ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I really agonized over the right way to end this. I really hope the ending turned out alright.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
